


Somnia

by silver_fish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon character deaths, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Nightmares, from ps to the end of dh sans the epilogue, im so glad thats a tag yall dont even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_fish/pseuds/silver_fish
Summary: From the time they’re eleven years old, Ron is always there to help him find his peace in those dark and lonely hours of the night. Turns out, Harry has helped Ron find his too.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Comments: 50
Kudos: 407





	Somnia

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/laphicets) / [tumblr](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com)
> 
> honestly i dont know latin so if ive been Stupid titling this feel free to let me know LOL. somnia is translated into english as “dreams.” and as the root of insomnia, i think that implies it would be the state of sleeping. which is something i should have been doing instead of writing this. oh well. please enjoy!

The very first time it happens, it’s the middle of October in their first year. At first, Ron isn’t certain what woke him up, but just as he is about to shrug it off and roll to his other side, he hears it: a whimper.

Sitting up, he strains to listen, wondering if one of his dormmates is in some sort of pain. It sounds again, and now it is quite apparent where the noise is coming from.

 _Harry_.

He hesitates for only a moment before crawling out of his bed and padding over to Harry’s. Carefully pulling the curtains back, he gazes down at his new friend, alarmed to see the other boy’s face tensely wrinkled, sweat beading across his skin. There is a choked sound rising off his lips, a barely formed gasp of “ _No_ …”

Ron reaches out and gently shakes his shoulder. For a moment, Harry’s entire body tenses up even more, and then he lets out a loud gasp and sits up, scrambling to put as much space between them as possible. When he looks up, his eyes are glazes. He does not seem to recognize Ron.

“Harry?” He doesn’t dare move, but he holds his friend’s gaze, concerned.

“Ron?” Harry croaks.

“Yeah, mate, it’s me.”

A shaky exhale. His shoulders droop. Suddenly, he seems quite fascinated in his hands, fallen to his lap.

“You okay?” Ron asks quietly.

Still not meeting his eyes, Harry nods. “Just a dream,” he mutters.

“Want to talk it about it?” That was what his mum had always said to him when he had bad dreams, Ron remembers. He hasn’t had one for years and years, though.

“Not really,” Harry says. “Er...I’m sorry I woke you. I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Ron tells him quickly. “Not your fault. Do you...erm…”

It’s quite dark, but Ron doesn’t think he imagines the colour on Harry’s face.

“No,” he says. “That’s okay. Er, thanks, though. I’ll be okay. Just...just go back to sleep, all right?”

Hesitantly, Ron nods. “Okay, mate, whatever you need. Just, er...if you need something…”

“Okay,” Harry says. His voice is hollow, the most lifeless Ron has ever heard it.

Thoroughly chilled, Ron returns to his bed, but sleep does not claim him again that night. As far as he can tell, it never claims Harry either.

~

The next time it happens is just before Halloween. This time, Ron wakes and takes only a few seconds to figure out why. It isn’t that Harry is particularly loud or anything; rather, it just seems to be a _feeling_ , something deep in his gut that drives him out of bed and to Harry’s side. Shaking his friend awake as he does so, he sits on the edge of Harry’s bed.

The gasp. The separation. Fear, flickering through green eyes in the dark.

And then he groans, dropping his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Ron.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, mate,” is his immediate response.

Uncertain, Harry peeks up at him. “But I woke you up again, didn’t I?”

“I don’t mind,” he promises. “Bad dream?”

“Er, yeah, I guess.” Shifting slightly, Harry drops his hands and stares at a point just beyond Ron’s head. “Don’t worry about it. I…”

He trails off, but Ron has an idea of what he’s trying to say anyway.

“You have them often?”

His shoulders visibly tense. “Often enough, I s’pose.”

Ron hesitates for only a moment before saying, “When we had nightmares, my mum would lay with us ‘til we fell asleep again. I could… Well, you know. Only if you want, ‘course.”

There is a pregnant pause, and Ron thinks Harry is going to say no, but then he gives a small nod.

“Okay,” he says softly. “If...if you want to.”

He moves to the far side of the bed, as near to the edge as he can get, and then Ron carefully climbs up on the other side. Harry is quite small, and the bed is already more than large enough for two eleven-year-old boys. There is a sizeable space between them, but neither move to fill it.

“Er, good night, Ron,” Harry says.

“Night, Harry.”

But it isn’t long before Harry falls deeply back into sleep, and, guiltily, Ron wonders how many nights he has already spent awake, plagued by dreams about who knows what.

Once he is certain Harry is fast asleep, breathing reassuringly even, he slips out of the bed and heads back to his own before finally letting sleep take him over too.

~

It quickly becomes a habit, but they never discuss it in the morning. Ron stays at Hogwarts for Christmas, and they both know it has something to do with not wanting to leave Harry alone again, but neither will say that either.

And honestly, Ron is grateful for it, especially once Harry finds the _mirror_.

The Mirror of Erised. The mirror in which he sees the parents he never knew, the family he never had. On some level, Ron can’t really understand, but on another, he thinks he does.

For many nights after Harry finds the mirror, his bed is empty. In a way, it is almost worse than seeing him shaking and sweating from a nightmare. 

And once he stops going, they seem to get worse.

So, Ron will lie with him, will whisper reassurance to him, will be there to wake him when the dream’s hold is too tight. Ron will stay with him, always, and in the morning, when they wake up in their own beds, they will not mention it. Not to each other. Not to anybody else.

It doesn’t happen every night, by any means. Just once in a while. Every week or two, maybe. Ron supposes it’s possible that Harry has nightmares more frequently, but if he does, it isn’t obvious in the way these ones are. He wakes exhausted in the morning, eyes duller than normal, avoiding both Ron and Hermione’s gazes at least until after breakfast.

But he carries himself as though this is normal, and Ron suspects that, for Harry, it very well may be.

By the end of term, they hold an unspoken understanding. Harry doesn’t want to talk about what he dreams about, Ron doesn’t need to hear it, and Ron is going to be there for him whether he asks for him or not. Those last few days, they are separated only because they’re injured, but Ron hopes, desperately, that Harry knows he would be there if he could. And, as if in answer to his prayers, Harry is smiling at the end of term feast, and they get to the Hogwarts Express for their first trip home in high spirits.

Though Ron worries about leaving Harry on his own for so long, he knows there isn’t much he can do. He promises to invite Harry to the Burrow, and Harry smiles so genuinely at him, it almost knocks him off his seat.

But, the thing is, Harry never responds to his letters.

He must send a dozen, just in the first week alone, and when he asks his mum about it, she simply tells him that he’s probably busy catching up with his family, and there’s nothing to worry about.

Ron worries, anyway, of course. How could he not, thinking of how many nightmares Harry must have endured on his own by now?

The longer it sits, the more it festers. Fred and George offer him a solution, and any thoughts of potential danger stay far from his mind. Whatever their parents would say if they found out, Ron doesn’t _care_. Harry matters more. That was established months and months ago, as far as Ron is concerned.

And when Ron sees the bars on the window, the locks on the door, Harry’s thin and exhausted frame, he knows he has done the right thing.

So, their mum is a little cross with them. When Harry wakes shaking and whimpering from a nightmare that very first night, Ron decides it doesn’t matter what his mum thinks. Harry calms at his voice, at his touch, at his presence. All is as it should be.

~

They don’t talk about what Ron and his brothers saw at Privet Drive, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sit well with Ron. With determination, he vows to himself to never let Harry be locked up like that again. He has thought for some time that Harry has probably never had a person sit by him on a bad night and soothe him back to sleep. Now, he is certain, and all it does is remind him why he started doing so for Harry in the first place.

It’s no different at the Burrow than it is at Hogwarts. If anybody notices on the mornings that they’re both looking more tired than usual, nobody says anything. At first, he has more frequent nightmares, but as the days pass by, they lessen again, and by the time they’re back at Hogwarts, it’s no different than it was halfway through last year.

They’re a little older now, though, and have grown a bit too. They can’t quite leave the same space between them, but both of them are so accustomed to this by now that they don’t even think to mention it. 

Their second year is Ron’s first big test as Harry’s best friend, it would seem. But no matter what anybody says, he stays by Harry’s side. Of course he knows Harry isn’t evil, or anything even near it. He must be about the _least_ evil person Ron has ever met. His smiles are sunshine, his eyes are light, vibrant, pleasantly full of life no matter what happens to him.

There is one night, not long after they find out Harry is a Parselmouth, that he wakes Ron in the night with a sound much like hissing. It’s not unusual, necessarily, but now the noise makes Ron pause; when he wanders toward Harry’s bed, he realizes it _is_ hissing, and for the first time, when Harry is awake, Ron asks, uneasily, what he was dreaming about.

Harry rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I dunno,” he says. Honestly. “Sometimes there’s this...green light. It’s not _really_ a bad dream, I guess. Just weird.”

Ron nods like he understands, though he really doesn’t. It is the same thing Harry admitted to dreaming about after the mirror fiasco last year, but, then, Ron had written it off as some kind of delusion induced by the mirror.

Now, he isn’t so sure.

“I’ll stay anyway,” he says decisively, and Harry flashes him a small smile. Grateful, though he can’t say it.

Within seconds, he has fallen asleep again. Ron tries very hard not to think about what that hissing could possibly have meant.

~

When they meet in Diagon Alley before their third year, Ron takes to immediately assessing his best friend. He doesn’t seem to be doing badly, though Ron knows he has only wound up here because of something involving his relatives.

Harry doesn’t talk about them a lot, but Ron knows they don’t like magic, and they don’t like Harry much either. He’s asked his parents about it before, but they both seem rather dismissive, saying things like “Most Muggles just have a hard time with raising a magical child, that’s all, and wizards usually prefer the magical world, themselves.”

But Ron doesn’t think Hermione’s parents dislike her, and Hermione certainly doesn’t dislike _them_. When she talks about it, she makes it sound as though her parents were quite thrilled to find out she was a witch.

Something doesn’t add up, either way. The first night they’re at the Leaky Cauldron, Ron slips out of his own room and knocks on Harry’s door. If his family questions it, he can only hope they won’t bring it up.

Of course, Harry is still awake, and lets him in without question.

Ron keeps his dressing gown on, growing more and more uncertain as Harry climbs into bed. Looking over at him expectantly, Harry motions for him to come.

Relieved, Ron nods and gets on the other side of the bed. For a very long time, they lie there in companionable silence, and then, almost hoping Harry is already asleep but knowing he is not, Ron whispers, “If you wanna talk about it, I’d like to hear, y’know?”

The only indication that Harry even hears him is a short, sharp intake of breath.

“But you don’t need to,” Ron continues quickly. “Only…only if you want.”

A pause. And then Harry says, very quietly, “I don’t really know how to talk about this.”

 _This_ could mean anything, Ron thinks, but he doesn’t let it frustrate him. Instead, he lies beside Harry, listening to the other boy’s breaths as they turn steadier, even, and then deepen as sleep claims him.

Maybe Ron stays in Harry’s room a little longer than he should, but he still winds up in his own bed before anybody else wakes up. Nobody even realizes, but it puts his mind at ease, and there is a part of him that selfishly thinks that, maybe, just his presence is enough to help Harry after all.

~

Seeing Harry collapse from the dementor is horrifying in a way Ron can’t quite explain. It’s sort of like seeing him suffer from a nightmare in the middle of the day, while he is awake, even, and when he does come to and he asks who was screaming, Ron begins to get a very bad feeling.

Harry doesn’t _like_ people to see him as fragile. In any capacity. It’s likely that Ron is the only person who even knows about his nightmares, and he suspects that Harry never would have let him in on it if he had had a say in the thing at all. But their very first night back at Hogwarts is one of the worst yet, and, rather than drifting back to sleep, Harry gives up entirely and they stay up until dawn whispering to each other so they don’t fall asleep.

In the morning, Hermione chastises them for staying up too late. “It can be really bad for mental development,” she says primly. “Not _only_ your grades will suffer if you don’t sleep!”

“They can’t give us assignments yet.” Ron scoffs. “It’s the first day!”

“We’re not second years anymore,” she replies darkly, and that is that.

Harry stays relatively quiet, even as the days press on. His nightmares now come at least two times a week, but usually more. Hermione asks Ron about it one day, but she herself is so exhausted from her heavy workload that she doesn’t press too hard. Still, she seems to suspect something, and Ron has to wonder when he grew quite so protective of Harry’s complicated concept of his own dignity.

Some nights, Harry just keeps himself awake. Others, he’ll toss and turn and whimper and cry (though, tactfully, Ron will pretend that last doesn’t happen at all) until he is so exhausted he’ll sleep nightmare-free. Ron asks him if being there the way he is even helps, and Harry just stares, as if he has said something ridiculous.

“Of course it does,” he finally mutters. “It’d be a lot worse on my own. It always is.”

“At your aunt’s?”

He nods. “They don’t really care enough to notice. But, er, you did. So...thanks.”

It is enough for Ron, at least.

As Harry perseveres to learn the Patronus Charm, his nights get worse and worse. After one particular lesson with Lupin, he wakes shaking and gasping every single night for more days than Ron would really like to count. It gets exhausting fast, for both of them, and about a week after that lesson, it becomes too much, rather suddenly.

Ron wakes and stumbles to his best mate’s bed without question, then falls into it with a distinct lack of grace. The movement is enough to make Harry stir slightly, though he is quickly pulled back into his dream. But when Ron’s shoulder brushes against Harry’s, Harry stiffens slightly, and then—

He relaxes. Stills. His breathing, still somewhat harsh, evens out slightly.

Ron doesn’t get much of a chance to ponder this, though, because he is falling asleep himself, and for the first time, he stays with Harry through the whole night.

~

This is another thing they don’t talk about, but it quickly becomes the norm. After all, Ron reasons, they can’t expect him to wait for Harry to fall asleep before he can _every_ time, never mind that that’s exactly what he had been doing for two years already.

Maybe there’s something more to it, but neither of them will acknowledge that, so they simply let it move on, as everything else has.

All in all, it’s a difficult year, but as tired as Ron and Harry are, Hermione seems to be doubly so. She hands in the Time-Turner at the end of the year. That is her explanation, and Ron figures it won’t be long before she’s demanding theirs.

But there’s a lot that happens that summer, from Sirius’s flight to Harry’s strange dreams to the massacre at the Quidditch World Cup. He won’t say it, but Harry is as shaken as any of them, and sometimes he’ll grab Ron’s arm or hand as if it is a lifeline, and even though Ron is certain that Harry isn’t always asleep when he does this, he doesn’t say anything about it, in order to spare both of them the embarrassment.

Since the initial event with the dementor last year, it _has_ gotten better, but Ron finds he still worries for his friend anyway, never falling asleep even in his own bed until he’s certain Harry is calmly asleep in his. He can’t let himself believe it’s a bad thing, to be protective. When he’s awake, after all, he’ll insist he doesn’t need protection, and nobody would ever really think he might, either. He’s bold and brave and as large as his name implies.

In sleep, though, he seems small. Vulnerable. He always has.

Of course, there has to be _something_.

The first thing that happens is Moody. Ron doesn’t really think too much about what he’s showing them, until he shows the Killing Curse and there is a small intake of breath from Harry beside him as the spider collapses before a flash of green.

They don’t get a chance to talk about it, though the fact that Harry seems rather insistent on _not_ talking about it may have something to do with that. Still, it is no surprise when Ron hears him muttering and whimpering and hissing, too, in his sleep before he even gets close to sleep himself.

There is no hesitation anymore as he slides into Harry’s bed beside him and carefully nudges him awake. Even after all this time, Harry still tends to be a relatively light sleeper, and at the lightest of touches he shoots up, gasping, but now he only takes a second before letting his guard drop again. He does not move away.

Wordlessly, Ron scoots a little closer to him, and they both lean against the headboard while Harry catches his breath and collects his thoughts.

After a moment, he sighs, then mutters, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Ron shifts slightly to face him. “Is it, erm, ‘cause of…?”

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest and stares down unseeing. “Yeah,” he admits softly. “Y’know, the…” He stops, swallowing. “I realized—er, last year, that is...I…”

Ron frowns at him. “What is it, mate? You can tell me anything, you know?”

“Y-yeah, I know.” He takes a deep breath, then looks up and meets Ron’s eyes. “The dementors, you know, I hear—I hear my mum when she…” He falters, dropping his gaze again. “Er, I—I realized that—I was dreaming about it. All along. I never even knew. The green light…”

Ron blinks, throat tight.

“It’s okay,” Harry says quickly, drawing his legs closer to him still. “I just never thought… Kinda stupid, I suppose…”

“Not...not stupid,” Ron says hoarsely. “Not at all.”

Harry says nothing, his eyes firmly glued to his knees.

“Come...c’mere,” Ron finally says, cautiously lifting one arm. Harry eyes him for a moment, then sighs and comes closer, letting Ron drop his arm around his shoulders. He’s warm against Ron’s side, but his trembling is still pronounced, his pyjamas still stuck to his skin by sweat. They stay this way for quite some time, and, eventually, Harry falls asleep again, curled into Ron’s side.

Ron lowers him carefully, until his head is resting against his pillow, and then lies down beside him and waits for sleep to claim him too.

~

Every night after their fight when Harry’s name comes out of the Goblet of Fire, Ron wakes to hear the telltale signs of one of Harry’s nightmares. He’s so attuned to Harry by now that it isn’t even a question of _what_ or _if_ anymore.

The first time it happens, he is angry enough that he can roll over and return to sleep. The second night, he can’t fall asleep at all, guilt tearing at his chest like a creature trying to release itself from within him.

The third night, he gets up and takes his place beside Harry. When Harry stirs, he mutters, “I’m not forgiving you.”

Harry grabs his arm tightly, trying to keep him close but surely knowing that he’ll have to let go before morning. “I know,” he breathes.

Ron doesn’t fall asleep in Harry’s bed all through the next weeks, but he finds himself there during the night as often as ever. Harry holds him desperately, perhaps not even realizing he is doing so, and Ron refuses to let himself think about what that might mean, or how it makes him feel. He’s angry, he reminds himself, but it gradually gets harder and harder to remember why he even was in the first place.

After the first task, none of that matters anymore. That night, he sleeps next to Harry without question, but not once does Harry wake from any sort of dream. Still, in his sleep, he grips Ron’s arm with unparalleled force, but this time, Ron isn’t planning on going anywhere, not ever again.

It is the best sleep Ron has in weeks. He doesn’t know when, though, any of this started affecting the quality of _his_ sleep. But in the morning, Harry smiles at him, a dazzling look if Ron has ever seen one, and he knows it doesn’t matter because it was the best sleep Harry has had in weeks, too.

~

There are good patches, and bad ones too. The time around Christmas is always worse, but the late night tossing and turning of dingy grey December nights pales in comparison to the force Harry holds him with following the second task.

As February eases into March, though, and then spring is singing all around them, his nightmares lessen. Still, he doesn’t seem intent on letting Ron _go_ anywhere when he is asleep and Ron is close enough to hold, and Ron certainly isn’t about to give him the impression that he _is_ going to leave.

It does get better, of course it does.

But then it gets much, much worse.

Probably, Ron sees it coming the second Harry is out of that maze, but his mind is filled with all sorts of terrible thoughts, eyes fixed on the _body_. Cedric Diggory. Seventeen years old and all Ron can think is that it’s better than _fourteen_ , because when Hermione grasps his sleeve and looks up at him with wide brown eyes, tremulous, he knows they are thinking the same thing:

_It could have been him._

It doesn’t quite hit him until later, in the hospital wing, complicated and confusing directions from the headmaster and a purple potion for dreamless sleep right before him, that Ron begins to absorb all of this.

The days after the task, none of them quite know what to do. Harry is quiet, withdrawn, a heavy distance in his eyes that says far more than any words he could possibly speak. His mother and Hermone both speak to him in hushed tones, about _sensitivity,_ about _empathy_ , as if they’ve any claim to the words where Ron hasn’t, but he just can’t find it in himself to argue with them.

When Harry returns to Gryffindor Tower, he doesn’t appear to know what to do with himself. Ron watches, but doesn’t intervene, having no idea how he could possibly convince Harry that _anything_ will be “all right” after this.

And it’s not, not by a long shot.

The first time it happens, they all wake up, alarmed, to the sound of muffled, choked screams. Panting breaths, words barely registerable if not for the utter silence of the night—“ _Don’t kill him… No, no… Don’t kill him!_ ”

Ron stands, glaring around at their other dormmates, then approaches Harry and reaches a trembling hand out to him. At the slight contact, Harry’s entire body tenses, and then he is moving, head flung up but all his limbs positioned away from Ron.

“Don’t— _touch_ —me,” he manages, but his voice is thick with sleep, still, and Ron suspects he may well still be dreaming.

Making a split-second decision, he climbs up to sit on Harry’s bed, then draws the curtains close around them. When he looks back to his friend, Harry is shaking something fierce, an autumn leaf decayed through and through, one gentle breeze enough to knock it flying.

“Harry, mate, it’s—” He stops, swallowing. Well, it’s not _all right_ , is it? He says instead, “You’re dreaming, it’s not real.”

But Harry’s eyes are wide open, glazed over as they have been these past few days.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” he says again, but now he is certainly awake, a defiance in the tilt of his head, as if daring Ron to fight with him now.

“All right,” Ron concedes. “Do you, er…”

Seeming to sense that there is no fight to be had, everything in Harry deflates.

“No,” he mutters. “Sorry I woke you.”

Ron starts at that. It’s been _years_ , surely, since Harry has said anything like that. Hasn’t it?

“I, er, I don’t mind. You know that.” Ron coughs. “Look, mate, I’m here to help, whatever you need—”

“I need to be alone,” Harry says abruptly.

“Are you—?”

“Don’t.” Now, a slight emotion creeps into Harry’s tone, turning it hoarse. “Please, Ron. Just go back to sleep.”

 _Sensitivity_ , his mother had said. Dumbledore had told them, hadn’t he? Harry had been through something horrible, beyond the scope of their imaginations.

Shaken, Ron finally gives a small nod and backs off, closing the curtains behind him again as he stumbles back to his own bed. But even as he hears the other boys drift back into sleep, Ron can only manage to stare up at the canopy of his bed, dry-mouthed.

He never hears Harry fall asleep again, either.

~

None of them quite expect Harry to be back to his regular self by the time they are boarding the Hogwarts Express, but it isn’t exactly reassuring, either, to see the absent look in his eyes, or to know that there is something Ron ought to be able to do something to brighten them up again but Harry just won’t _let_ him.

Still, he knows Harry doesn’t want to be seen as fragile, so he does what he can to keep everything, well, _normal_.

It makes it a difficult farewell, to say the least, but the following weeks turn out to be much worse.

Ron and Hermione talk about it, of course they do. They know what to expect, to some degree, and yet they both share in the unspoken knowledge that on that terrible day, a part of their best friend died in that graveyard, and he won’t be coming back.

So, his anger is anticipated, in a way.

Ron doesn’t _know_ what Harry’s relatives say or do to him. Frankly, any time Harry gets close to mentioning it, he clams up again so fast that it would be impossible to even wager a guess. But when put into a certain perspective, it’s not nearly so.

Hermione has all sorts of theories, things she’ll never, ever say to Harry, and Ron tried his damnedest not to listen to any of them, but, still. Sometimes, he wonders.

They’re sleeping in the same room at Grimmauld Place, so of course it is no wonder when Ron wakes to the telltale noises of a nightmare. He is not screaming this time, but somehow the whimpering, pained sounds he’s making instead are just as bad. Words, choked nearly beyond recognition: _no, Cedric, kill, no, don’t, no, no, no_.

True to his word, Ron _had_ left Harry alone until the end of term. Clearly, it had helped nothing, but he wasn’t about to bring any of that up now, was he? With bated breath, he comes to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed and reaches out to rouse his mate awake.

And awaken Harry does, though once he has adjusted enough, caught his breath, grounded himself, he is glaring.

“I told you to leave me alone,” he bites out.

Ron blinks. “I—well, that was a while ago, wasn’t it?”

Harry sits up, curling his knees to his chest in a rather childishly defensive position. Ron remembers sitting the same way, once, while his mum lectured him about being too lax with household chores.

But that was ages ago. These days, Ron has always sought to mimic Harry in those sorts of situations, brave and defiant to the very last.

Yet, Ron has known for some time, now, that Harry is not all he seems. He is vulnerable, at times. Scared, and tired, and far younger than he would like anybody to think.

“I’m angry with you,” Harry points out, but he’s not looking at Ron, either.

“I know, mate, and I’m sorry, but—” He stops, sighing heavily. “Well, no point going on about it. I am sorry, though. We both are.”

Beneath the covers, Ron sees Harry wiggling his toes, as if to expel some sort of nervous energy.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says flatly.

No surprises there.

“You don’t have to,” Ron assures him. “But can’t I—”

“No.” Monotone, hollow. He will not meet Ron’s eyes. “Just go back to bed, Ron.”

“Harry—”

“ _Please_.”

Ron stands and goes, heart hammering in his chest. As he lies down again, the tension strings itself endlessly between them, a taut, fraying wire, but Ron knows that neither of them will snap it, not now, maybe not ever.

When he finally drifts off to sleep, he dreams of a familiar mirror, one that had never before haunted him in quite the way it had haunted Harry. Only this time, it is not Ron reflected within but Harry, palms pressed against the glass as if trying to break out.

But when Ron touches the place where Harry’s hand is, the mirror explodes all at once, and where Harry had been but a moment before, there is nothing.

For the first time he can ever really remember, Ron stands completely alone.

~

It is a trend that keeps well into the year. Ron doesn’t dare press Harry harder, reminded time and time again of the image of him _literally_ shattering, but Harry doesn’t grow any more lax on his own, either. During the days, he is short and irritable. In the nights, he cries for reprieve Ron can no longer give to him.

He asks Madam Pomfrey for Dreamless Sleep, but she refuses, something about _limited supplies_ and _addictive properties_ , but Ron doesn’t think he imagines the sympathetic glint in her eyes. Not for a moment did she ever think he was asking for himself.

Hermione tries to discuss is, sometimes, but Ron tells her there’s no point. Harry is _explosive_ these days, prone to fits of rage at the drop of a hat, and there is nothing they can do about it except try to redirect that anger, or at least remind him that no matter how much he yells, they aren’t going anywhere.

It isn’t until December that the change _really_ happens, though. Ron is used to waking up when Harry is in the throes of a nightmare. To a degree, he is even used to hearing Harry hissing in a language only he can understand, though it would of course be untrue to say that it doesn’t still make him shudder when he hears it in the dead of the night.

What he _isn’t_ used to is not being able to wake Harry up.

The other boys try too, but it is a fruitless endeavour. Neville leaves, runs to fetch McGonagall, but Ron stays by Harry, paralyzed by a fear he has only felt once before, in June.

From there, as things tend to lately, it only gets worse.

He’s vomiting, shaking, gasping for air he cannot get. Everything seems to happen very fast, as far as Ron is concerned. What Harry _does_ say is far from reassuring, something about Ron’s dad, a giant snake, something he witnessed, something he... _was_?

Ron is given plenty of time to dwell on it when McGonagall hurries to take Harry away, warning the other boys with a sharp look that they better not be going anywhere. One of them, Dean or Seamus, Ron couldn’t say, tries to talk about it, but Neville gestures for them both to be quiet. If he expects Ron to speak, though, he is mistaken. With a disgruntled shake of his head, he heads down to the common room to wait for Harry’s return.

Harry doesn’t come back, though.

How long he waits, it is impossible to say, but eventually he, too, is summoned to the headmaster’s office, along with Fred and George and Ginny. It’s numbing to hear the truth, but, then, he has felt numb since he woke to find Harry tonight.

They’re sent off to Grimmauld Place again, and Ron doesn’t presume to know what Harry needs, or is thinking. For his part, Harry seems intent on staying away, and when Ron does see him, he highly suspects the other boy is not sleeping at all. Sharing a room, Ron knows Harry isn’t waking with nightmares, but to see the bags beneath his eyes is something else entirely.

When Hermione comes, she draws him out. Talking, like she has always said. Talking helps.

And maybe it does, because that same night Ron does wake to one of Harry’s nightmares, obvious by the frantic sounds of tossing and turning, murmured words, harsh breaths posed between each one of them. For a brief moment, he worries that it is a repeat of the vision with Arthur, but he quickly dispels the thought and instead hastens to wake Harry up. This time, it is no struggle at all, but Harry doesn’t say anything, either. He averts his gaze, hands gripping the bedding so tightly his knuckles are turning visibly white, even in the darkness of the night.

“Move over,” Ron tells him.

Harry doesn’t move. “Go back to sleep, Ron.”

But Ron has had enough of this. Something about the things Hermione brought up to the surface today, all the complicated thought processes she _gets_ that Ron just doesn’t…well. He thinks he’s starting to get it, at least a bit.

“No,” he says, as firmly as he dares without raising his voice. “C’mon, then, budge over.”

“Ron—”

“Just _move_ , would you?”

Though he is tense, poised for a fight or, perhaps, for flight, Harry scoots over.

Ron sits down beside him, careful not to get too close. In the back of his mind, Harry’s voice saying _Don’t touch me_ is as loud as ever.

“I’m fine, you know,” Harry says after a moment. Pointlessly, because Ron knows he’s not.

“Y’know, Hermione’s always saying… Well, she says talking helps, so…” Ron looks down at his friend, though he’s sure his ears have reddened all the way down to his jaw and cheeks. “You can talk to me. If, er, if you want to. But I reckon you should, ‘cause, well…”

Harry shudders. His eyes are still far from Ron’s. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he murmurs.

“I’m not going anywhere, mate.”

He sighs. “It’s… You don’t understand, all right? You can’t.”

“I could try,” Ron points out. “If you told me about it, I mean. I could try to understand. You just need to—let me. You know?”

Slowly, Harry turns around. His eyes always appear wider without his glasses. Now, in their dimly lit room in this old, evil house, they are wide with _emotion_. Fear, pain, a deep, incomprehensible sorrow, anger, agony, _grief_. Too much, Ron thinks, and yet he is here to stay, he has already said so. That was decided a long time ago, anyway.

“I don’t _want_ you to understand,” Harry says. “Don’t you—don’t you get it? Nobody should… You’re not _supposed_ to understand!”

Something tightens in Ron’s chest. “I just want to help you, mate.”

“I _know_.” Harry’s voice is tight, pained. “But it’s… I don’t… You shouldn’t…”

Cautious, Ron ventures, “But I could listen.”

Harry shakes his head. “I can’t, Ron, I’m sorry.”

“Then let me stay,” he says immediately. “And I’ll be right here—”

“I don’t think you should.”

Ron stops, throat aching with the words Harry has forced back. “I’d feel better,” he tries again. “If I could—I would feel better, Harry.”

And—he looks away again, as if there is something in those eyes he doesn’t want Ron to see. “But I don’t… You can’t… I mean, the _touch_.”

 _Don’t touch me,_ he said.

“Okay,” Ron says. Simply. “I won’t touch you. But I’m not going anywhere, you hear me?”

“Fine,” he says, petulant, like a child. “Not like I can stop you, can I?”

And that is that. Harry lies down again, pulling the blankets tighter against himself, as if trying to curl so tightly he will disappear. With extreme caution, Ron lies down too, but he does not fall asleep, not even when his eyes begin to grow heavy with exhaustion. If he gives in to it, he may go back on his word while he is asleep. This is a fragile thing, yet. Ron can’t risk breaking it.

For now, he just watches as Harry falls asleep again.

For now, it is enough.

~

It’s not the same as it was, by any means, but it is closer. Still, Ron is careful not to touch Harry, though during the day Harry doesn’t seem too bothered when their shoulders or knees brush. Ron, on the other hand, is hyper-aware of it all, almost expecting Harry to turn on him with angry, betrayed eyes.

Ron doesn’t _really_ understand the aversion, but he thinks it might have something to do with eleven years of isolation, bars on windows and soup cans pushed through cat flaps. It is something he won’t forget but simply has no idea how to address, and he suspects that Harry wouldn’t be overly grateful if he tried to. This is one aspect, perhaps, where they are simply all too similar. After all, Harry doesn’t try to offer to buy him things, doesn’t even try to breach the subject though Ron’s sure he’s _thought_ about it.

But a wealth of gold and a wealth of affection aren’t exactly the same, are they?

Ron loses some sleep over it, admittedly, trying to stay with Harry and calm him enough to sleep after a nightmare but not allow himself to loosen enough that he might accidentally touch Harry. He has done it a couple times, mere accidental brushes in a bed too small for both of them, and while Harry doesn’t _say_ anything, he tenses up, appears to lose control over his breathing. Ron is more careful, then, but even caution can’t save him from mistakes now and then.

Perhaps it is Harry’s way of saying he understands that Ron needs this too. Ron wouldn’t like to _say_ so, but it is true. Sort of. For every hour of sleep he loses now, he would surely lose three times as many if he thought Harry was suffering through it all by himself.

It isn’t easy, no, but things rarely are, where Harry is concerned.

At first, Occlumency seems like a good thing, but a few weeks past their return to Hogwarts from the holidays, it quickly becomes apparent that it does little good for Harry. Hermione would tack on a “yet” to that, Ron suspects, but she doesn’t _know_ , does she, not the way he does.

Because no matter how long the lessons go on, Harry’s nightmares get worse right along with his mental defences against Voldemort.

He thrashes, he screams, he cries, but it makes no difference. Whatever he’s reliving, there is no end to it. Helpless, Ron can only watch, whispering soothing words, and wait for it to end.

Sometimes, it does, and he might wake for a moment, but then he slips back into sleep. Other times, he wakes and can do such thing. In those cases, Ron is always there, ready to listen or reassure or perhaps simply sit here and remind Harry that he’s _not_ going anywhere, not now, not ever.

Tonight, Harry is wide awake.

“I don’t really get you sometimes,” he says, quietly, but he’s looking at his toes.

“What, me?” Ron blinks. “What d’you mean?”

“Well.” A pause. He’s worrying at his bottom lip. He always does, Ron has noticed, when something is _really_ bothering him. “I tell you again and again I don’t want you here, but you don’t care. I don’t get it.”

“But you do,” Ron insists. “Want me here, I mean.”

Harry stiffens. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” His voice is low, dangerous, but it means little when he won’t even meet Ron’s eyes.

Ron shrugs. “Exactly how it sounds. Listen, mate, I won’t pretend to get it, not really, but, well… If you really meant that, you’d’ve done more to push me away.”

“Push you away,” Harry echoes.

“Well, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to push you away!”

Ron pauses for a moment, listening to ensure their dormmates haven’t woken. When he thinks he’s sure they’re still soundly asleep, he says, “Yeah, you do. You should hear the way Hermione talks about it all. I mean, really, you’d think—”

Harry doesn’t seem to be listening. “How could I want you here but want to push you away at the same time?” he asks indignantly. “Maybe you’d better go back to sleep, Ron, you’re making no sense—”

“But it’s true, Harry! And it’s fine, y’know, I don’t mind.”

His lips thin out, tightly pressed against each other. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You brought it up,” Ron points out.

Now, Harry looks at him, scowling, but his eyes are red-rimmed, tired, a little glassy. “I just don’t get it, all right? I don’t get why you stay when I’m just burdening you—”

“Oh, shut up,” Ron says, lightly. “ _Burdening_ me, honestly, do you even hear yourself—”

“But I am!” Now, his scowl falls away, replaced by something far more desperate. “That’s all it is, you know, I know it, there’s no need to pretend—”

“I’m not pretending!”

“—because I _know better_ ,” Harry continues, giving no indication that he has even heard. “I’m not _stupid_ , much as people seem to think I am. I can’t be your burden anymore!”

Perhaps Ron should have expected this. Somewhere deep inside him, he knows that someone else—Hermione, perhaps, maybe even Ginny—would have _known_ , would have gotten it without things ever getting to the point where Harry would need to put it between them himself. This is what his mother meant, after all, _sensitivity_. “Be sensitive,” an age-old adage, repeated time and time again for people _like Ron_ , people who do not understand, who cannot understand, as if sensitivity as Molly embodies it can be taught, as if it really is such a simple thing as a _choice_.

But Ron is who he is, insensitivities and all, and so he did not, could not, expect this.

 _Your burden_ , he says. Like the words are burning his tongue, like he has rehearsed it a thousand times but never had the guts to say it aloud even though he’s _Harry Potter_ , Gryffindor through and through, the very epitome of _bravery_ , the one person in the world who can do all the things nobody else can. They echo in Ron’s head, again and again, and, were he not himself, he would have thought about it, seen the signs, and now he would apologize for never noticing. It’s what Hermione would do, of course.

But Harry is not _Hermione’s_ burden. _Your burden_ , he says. _Yours_. Ron’s, he means.

It shouldn’t, but it fills his chest with warmth, and he cannot help but smile as he meets Harry’s eyes.

“Don’t,” Harry says sharply. “I’m serious, Ron. You shouldn’t—”

“I know you are,” Ron is quick to assure him, but he can’t quite keep the upward pull of his lips any more than he could stop the fierce pounding in his chest, the sudden _awareness_ he has had forced upon him. “Listen, mate, I don’t think you’re a burden, but—well, I _am_ here for you, y’know? Whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me about it, ‘cause I _want_ to hear, not just ‘cause you’re, well, you, or whatever it is you’re thinking. You’re my best mate. It’s what mates do.”

To his surprise, though, far from looking reassured, Harry’s gaze only grows more frantic, glossier, as if he is one more insensitive remark away from shattering completely.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” he demands. As fragile as he looks, his voice conveys none of it. “Why can’t you just take a fucking hint?!”

Ron winces, reminded again of their sleeping companions. “Listen, mate—”

“I can’t listen! Just _go away_ , why won’t you _go away_ , _why won’t you_ —?”

And then he stops, voice stuck in his throat. He breathes in deeply, sharply, painfully, and looks away again.

“Look,” Ron tries again, “I won’t pretend to understand, but I do know I’m not going anywhere, and, sure, you can yell, but—” He stops, shifts. Clears his throat. “Yelling hasn’t driven me away yet, and it isn’t going to now. So, go on, then. Yell at me. I can take it.”

When Harry turns to him, the fury in his eyes is plainly obvious. But it is not the first thing Ron sees, not at all.

Instead, from those furious eyes, there are tears. A lot of them. And he lifts his hand angrily to wipe at his face, but it’s obviously a futile effort. As soon as it drops again, his face is just as wet as it was a second ago. If there is any trace of a smile left on Ron’s face, it falls away now, his heart clenching painfully in his chest.

Harry Potter, Gryffindor through and through. The epitome of bravery. The one person who can do everything nobody else can.

Crying, the way Ron might have when he was small and separated from his mother, angry and confused and lost, so very lost, the hand that has been leading him onward since he learned to take his first steps suddenly withdrawn.

But never permanently.

Harry’s voice telling him to stay away, not to touch him, rings in Ron’s head, but it is not enough to keep him from leaning forward and pressing his thumbs against his friend’s cheeks, swiping the tears away, the way his mother or his father or his older brothers might have done for him. But Harry’s skin is warm under his touch, and, against what he knows to be right, he lingers, unable to draw back.

Harry doesn’t tell him to.

With a great, gasping breath, he says, “I don’t _want_ you to.”

Ron thinks to ask if he means _go_ or _stay_ , but the words die before they even get anywhere near his lips. There is something dangerously unguarded about the way Harry is looking at him right now, born of five years of _this_ , whatever it means, and, no, Ron doesn’t _need_ to ask, does he? The simple truth is that Harry doesn’t know what he wants either, and nobody has ever even asked him before, anyway, have they?

Unthinking, his fingers push harder against Harry’s face. Tears still seep down over them, but Ron can’t feel much other than the weight of Harry’s gaze right now. It’s not as if he knows—has ever known—the “right thing” to say.

Harry always forgives him, though.

“I promise,” Ron whispers, “I won’t go anywhere. All right? I’ll always be there for you, no matter what. And when I can’t be, then…well, I’ll get there, yeah? I promise, Harry. No matter _what_.”

Harry sniffles, then nods. “Okay,” he says, defeated. “Okay.”

 _Okay_.

It’s not, though, is it? Not really.

Carefully, Ron pulls away from him, then gestures vaguely with his right hand, the one closer to Harry now. “Go back to sleep, mate. I’ll be here.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, wiping at his eyes again. “Yeah, I know.”

And with that, he lies back down, eyes slipping closed in an obvious show of exhaustion. Physical, emotional, it doesn’t matter. Ron will be here no matter what. He already said so, didn’t he?

Eventually, he falls asleep too, calmed by the steady rise and fall of Harry’s breathing. For the first time in a very long time, he isn’t worried about hurting Harry without meaning to. For the first time in a very long time, he barely even thinks about what it might mean if he touches Harry, as once before was as normal to him as breathing.

~

From there, it isn’t that it gets easier. For many days after that late night conversation, Harry can barely even look at Ron, and though Ron knows the shame isn’t about him, it creates distance on both sides. But Ron stays true to his word, and, eventually, the awkwardness fades away.

Not every night is Harry okay with being touched, either. It seems to be something that comes and goes, where one day he will relish in the feeling of it but the next he will reject it so violently Ron can only wonder if their friendship will survive it. But, again, it is not about Ron. While it is hard to internalize, Ron chants this over and over again within his own head, doing all he can not to let his insecurities show.

No, it doesn’t get “easier” at all. But there is a wall between them that has finally been torn down, and Ron is certain nothing can happen to build it back up again.

Or, he was at least.

Before _Sirius_.

Sirius, the last connection Harry had to his parents. Sirius, his godfather, his guardian in all the senses of the word but the legal one. Sirius, who he loves, who loved him, who is now gone.

It’s the same thing all over again, only worse, somehow. When they return from the Ministry, and Ron is hurt, and he doesn’t _know_ , can’t possibly know, but what does it matter, anyway? There’s nothing he can do, _nothing_ , to make this any easier for Harry. Harry, who will be blaming himself, who will be grieving, who will be feeling so completely and utterly alone.

The thing is, though, is once Ron does see him again, he would never guess Harry was feeling any of those things at all. Oh, he and Hermione know, of course they do, that Harry is good at hiding his true feelings—except, that is, his rage, that untameable fire that has been burning brighter and brighter since Cedric Diggory died in that graveyard—but this seems genuine in all the wrong ways.

There is no time to talk about any of it. If there were, Ron might have tried to dig deeper, tried to find the answer for himself, but—

There is simply no time.

They part at the end of term, as they do every year. This time, though, it is only a matter of weeks before Harry is at the Burrow again, sleeping in Ron’s room, close enough to touch but potentially far too unstable.

It’s that very same night, both of them unable to drift to sleep for obviously very different reasons, that Ron finally asks that dreaded question:

“How are you feeling? Er, holding up. Since Sirius…I mean, how are you…?”

If Harry finds his stumbling offensive, it doesn’t show. Instead, in the dark, he smiles, just a bit.

“I’m all right,” he says quietly. “You know, I…I thought, for a while…” He stops, sucking in a sharp breath, and looks determinedly to the wall.

“What?” Ron presses. “What did you think?

“That…he might not really be gone,” Harry admits softly. “But Dumbledore—well, he told me—Sirius left me _everything_. All of it. Everything he owned. And…and Dumbledore—well, he checked, didn’t he? Just to…be sure. And it’s all mine now, isn’t it? So…so that means…”

 _Sirius isn’t coming back_.

Ron nods, though of course Harry isn’t looking at him, and tries not to focus on the things Harry _has_ said. He’s not jealous about Harry getting Sirius’s money, not when he knows what the cost was.

Harry sighs, then says, “Bit stupid of me, I guess, but I still don’t really want to believe it. I mean it’s sort of…er, sort of my fault.” His voice has gone so very quiet, like the squeak of a mouse. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t think so, mate,” Ron says firmly, even as Harry flinches at the volume. Trying for something more gentle, he adds, “You were trying to save him. How could it be your fault?”

Silence.

And then, “There wasn’t anybody _to_ save.”

“None of us could have known that.”

“Snape did,” Harry says bitterly. “And Dumbledore. Hermione, too!”

“Oh, come on, even Hermione doesn’t know _that_ much,” Ron teases. When it clearly does nothing to lighten Harry’s mood, he lets the weight creep back into his voice. “Listen, mate, none of them _knew_ , either, not the way you’re saying. They just…thought, maybe. Like you did. Just…the other way around. Y’know?”

Harry turns to look at him, smiling ruefully. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I suppose.”

It’s not quite _knowing_ , but it doesn’t need to be.

Ron smiles back at him. “C’mon, you need more sleep. My mum’ll go spare if she thinks I’m keeping you up late.”

To his surprise, Harry’s cheeks seem to colour slightly at that.

“Er, yeah,” he says. “Good idea. Do you, er…?”

Without a word, Ron moves over in his bed and gestures for Harry to take up the space beside him. There isn’t much room for both of them, but Harry makes no indication, now, that he doesn’t want Ron to touch him. In fact, now that Ron thinks about it, this may well be the first time that Harry has asked to join _him_ and not the other way around.

For a very long time after that thought crosses his mind, he is still unable to sleep, but now is mind is occupied with something far more optimistic than before.

For the first time, he is sure, _really_ sure, that Harry needs him too.

~

The year progresses better than the last, in a great number of ways. Though Ron doubts Harry has been cured of his guilt regarding Sirius’s death, he seems largely in a better headspace than he did a year ago. Sometimes, he does not quite seem himself, distant and withdrawn, but now he is easier to pull back in and less prone to shouting at the mildest little thing.

There’s just one marked difference, though, for Ron, and while this is about Harry too, it has nothing to do with his trauma or his grief or his horrible dreams. No, this comes from Ron, and yet he can’t quite explain it.

Sometimes, in the night, as Harry sleeps, Ron just watches him, eased by the steadiness of his breathing, calmed by his presence in a way so inexplicable he can hardly even begin to rationalize it. This isn’t so new, though, he thinks. He has needed this closeness with Harry for a long time, after all. He sleeps better in Harry’s bed than in his own, and has for years.

But it’s present throughout the day now, too. Harry draws his gaze, constantly, and he realizes things he has always sort of _known_ but never thought to dwell on, like the exact shade of green Harry’s eyes are, the way they look sparkling with mirth, the way even his anger and irritation make him, well, _beautiful_ , shining, born of the sun to bring light into other people’s lives just as assuredly as he believes he must save them all.

Ron supposes that it’s a part of being the Boy Who Lived. Well, these days, they’re calling him the Chosen One. Son of prophecy, destined to bring happiness and peace back to their world.

The thing is, nobody thinks about _Harry’s_ happiness and peace. Not even Harry himself.

Ron does, though. Even now, he thinks about it throughout their days together, wonders if Harry counts them down too, aware, as he surely is, of just how finite all of this is. Harry has never been the type to expect a good thing to last. As much as has happened here, Ron knows that, for Harry, Hogwarts is the best thing he’s ever had.

The more he contemplates his thoughts and feelings, the more he feels certain that Harry _does_ need him. Who, other than Ron, has seen so much of him, after all? Who, other than Ron, _really_ knows Harry, spectacular accomplishments and horrific nightmares and all?

By Christmas, he has a name for it all. Love. So very simple, and yet, somehow _too_ simple. He has loved Harry for years, certainly. So what changed?

He isn’t the one with the answer for that. Instead, it is Ginny, who mentions something offhand over the holiday to their mum about her current boyfriend, Dean. “He’s really quite charming,” she says. “You should see the way he smiles at me!”

Well, at first Ron doesn’t think too much on that, except to be irritated that Dean is dating his _sister_. Of all people! But later, once they’ve returned to school and now it is Ron saying something without really thinking of the implications, something about mates who ought to know better than to date their friends’ little sisters, and Hermione grows furious with him for trying to threaten Ginny’s freedom just because she’s a _girl_ , and honestly, don’t you hear the way she talks about him? At that point, Ron turns to Harry for help, and Harry just grins at him, that same smile that lights up rooms and tears through Ron’s chest and reminds him, again and again, why he _cares_ so much.

And, just as suddenly, it is as though the whole world has tilted on its axis.

He sits on it for weeks, after that, watching Harry sleep or whispering to him when he can’t or stroking his hair while he fights with the gory details of another nightmare, maybe this time about Sirius or about Cedric or Voldemort or the fiendish memory of him, Tom Riddle. He opens the thought up, considers it, and then pushes it squarely away again in just as much time. He had never though _that_ much on his sexual preferences, but he’s sure he remembers looking at girls in their year or above, _definitely_ remembers feeling _something_ lacking in any innocence for Fleur Delacour. Then, has he ever really wanted to be with them? Ever really wanted to stay up like this, in the same bed, listening to the way they breathe, reassured by it, _enamoured_ by it? Surely not. That’s a feeling he has always dedicated to Harry, after all. From the time they were eleven years old.

It was always Harry.

It stays with him all year, but he dares not say a word. Sometimes, he watches Harry a bit too closely, but Harry doesn’t notice, of course he doesn’t. Well, he never noticed Ginny, either, did he? There must be some sort of irony in that, but Ron finds it hurts just a bit too much to stay on that particular line of thought.

Still, when winter melts into spring, and suddenly summer is on the horizon, Ron finds himself grateful that he has chosen not to say anything. Everything seems to happen very fast, though, of course, if they had listened to Harry, they might have felt the entire year was leading up to this moment, too.

But it doesn’t seem to matter, after all. It all happens very fast, and then—

Bill is hurt. Snape is gone. Dumbledore is dead.

And Harry is here, but suddenly a tremendous weight has been put on his shoulders. Something larger than life itself. Something he feels is simply too large to share.

On one of those last nights before the term ends and they all go back home— _home_ , as if anywhere but Hogwarts has ever been such for Harry, and now he is losing that too—they stay up together for hours and hours, neither seeming to know what, exactly, they can possibly say.

Finally, it is Harry who turns to him and says, “I never apologized to you.”

Ron blinks. “What for?”

He looks around them, as if worried someone will overhear them even though it has not happened so far, not through all these years, at least as far as they know. Once he is reassured, though, he looks up again and meets Ron’s eyes, determined.

“For last year,” he clarifies. “See, I thought…I thought that if you saw me the way I saw myself, you’d want nothing to do with me. But…I see now that, even if you did, you’d probably still be here. Even though it’s not really safe, or fun.”

Ron nods slowly. “Yeah, of course. I already promised.”

“I know.” Harry hesitates a moment, then leans forward, just a bit. Ron’s eyes fall to his lips, but move up again so quickly he can only hope Harry didn’t notice. “I thought a lot of things, last year. Sometimes I thought I was going mad. Actually, more often than not, I felt totally mental, but it was more than that. He was always in my head, and sometimes I couldn’t even tell where he ended and I began, and…and I started to feel…wrong. Dirty. Broken. I dunno. But you never… _you_ never saw me that way, and even if you had, you would’ve stuck with me anyway. So, er…sorry I was such a prat, and everything.”

Ron takes a moment to absorb all those words, and then he lets out a long breath, one he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

 _Don’t touch me_ , Harry said. Over and over and over. _Dirty. Broken_. _Couldn’t even tell where he ended and I began_.

“You could never be Dark,” Ron tells him fiercely. “Seriously, Harry, you’re the most…er, _light_ person I know. Nobody could change that, not even You-Know-Who. You’ve just, er…just had some bad experiences, that’s all.”

Harry shudders, backing away again. Even though he’s still close, Ron notices the absence of his heat, their mingling breaths, the intensity of his gaze.

“Sometimes I still worry,” Harry admits. “But after the Ministry…or, at the Ministry, he couldn’t possess me, right, because he doesn’t understand love, and…and I do. You know? I understand love. And, er…I love you, and Hermione, and…and I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I mean, for doubting you loved me too.”

 _Love_. He says the word so simply. As if it is simple, as if it all makes sense to him when of course it’s a mass of utter confusion to Ron. But, still, he smiles and says, “Well, it’s all right. I don’t blame you.”

If Harry expected him to say anything else, it doesn’t show. Instead he just returns the smile and shifts slightly, as if preparing to lie down and go to sleep. “Well, thanks, then. I’m, er…glad I have you, Ron.”

“Yeah,” Ron says quietly. “I’m glad I have you too.”

A sharp nod, and then Harry is lying down, pulling the covers up. Ron gets the hint and hastens to do the same thing, right by his side so that when—not if, not now, so soon after Dumbledore’s death—Harry has a nightmare, he is ready to help with it.

But even now, he has to admit that it isn’t about the nightmares anymore. It hasn’t been for years.

He just hopes beyond hope that Harry doesn’t see that too.

~

Of course, Harry can say he understands a thousand times, but in the most stressful moments he’ll still revert back to what he knows. Hermione says this is understandable, and something they _all_ do, in fact. Take her, for example: though she says she knows books don’t have all the answers, she still defaults to them when she can’t figure something out.

Ron doesn’t know what his “thing” is, but he _does_ know Harry’s. The world could be ending and Harry would still insist that he’s the only one who can stop it, and it’s just too dangerous for anyone else to help him.

Well, that sort of _is_ what’s happening now, Ron concedes. Death lingers around every corner. Each day that passes brings with it stronger feelings of dread, an endless cycle of worry and doubt, and in the middle of it is Harry, the prophecy, a destiny he has had no choice but to accept. Ron doesn’t always know if Harry would have rejected this fate if he could have, but, sometimes, he sees the fragmented pieces of his best friend and knows that this life was always going to break him somehow and he learned early on that the best he could do was accept that it would.

Some part of Ron still thinks he can protect Harry, though. Some part of him still repeats those words, _your burden_ , over and over again, feeling that if Harry’s destiny is to save this world then Ron’s is to save Harry from all the agony within it. Oh, he knows, has known for years, that it is not so simple. But when the sun sets and he is reminded that the only thing he has to listen for is Harry, he lets himself think it could be.

Just a couple days before the wedding, Harry wakes with a whispered scream, arms twitching convulsively. Ron has been trying to shake him awake for some time, but whenever their skin would meet, whatever Harry was dreaming about would seemingly worsen, and so Ron stepped back to let the nightmare runs its course, only getting close enough to murmur words of reassurance that may well never reach his sleeping friend.

Eventually, though, Harry does wake, and when he finally takes in a deep breath and looks up at Ron, there is fear in his eyes.

“All right?” Ron asks carefully.

A pause. Laboured breaths echo throughout the small room. And then Harry inclines his head in a slight nod, and Ron offers him a tentative smile.

“I keep thinking,” Harry murmurs, “that something bad is going to happen.”

Bad things have been happening all around them for years, though, Ron almost points out. But when Harry smiles wryly, he knows that there is no reason to. Harry already knows, of course he does. It is why he has nightmares in the first place.

“It’s okay now, though,” he says instead. “So…er, try to get some more sleep.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, all right. You…?”

“I’ll be right here,” Ron promises.

“You need to get some sleep too.” His voice is quiet, though, already drowned with the exhaustion that propels him to pull the covers closer to his chin.

“I will. G’night, Harry.”

“Night, Ron.”

For a moment, it is utterly quiet, and then Harry’s breaths deepen again, begin to even out. Feeling more secure now that he is asleep, Ron settles down beside him and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. For a long while, he can do nothing but trace the patterns the shadows cast over the walls and listen to the steady rhythm of Harry’s breathing. At some point, his eyes must slip closed and he, too, must fall asleep, but it is certainly not before he finds himself thinking, too, that this peace will not last. For now, though, it is all they have.

Ron wishes they didn’t have to give it up.

~

Staying in Grimmauld Place was much the same as it had been back in fifth year, but their time there is short, and, too, with only the three of them, Ron knows Hermione is beginning to suspect something. It’s not the first time he’s thought this, of course, but it is the first time that her suspicion might be enough for her to _say_ something.

As it is, though, it isn’t until they’re out in the forest that she does.

Ron has been sleeping close to Harry, but not _with_ him, not even close, compared to what they’ve gotten used to. Ron wouldn’t have minded, he insists, but Harry mutters something incomprehensible about Hermione and Ron drops it in as few words.

They notice that the locket seems to exacerbate their negative feelings in short time, but something about its continued presence seems to particularly affect Harry. It is less obvious in the day, but when he sleeps, he thrashes and mutters and hisses, but there is one night—when, Ron has no idea, time has slipped far away from them all out here—that it is so much worse than that.

Ron has always urged Harry away from silencing charms and the like. It’s a simple exercise in trust, he supposes: he has to trust that Harry won’t hide from him, and Harry has to trust that Ron will come when he needs him to. Well, a habit is a habit, after all, and Ron is grateful that even after all these years, Harry still doesn’t go to extreme lengths to hide his nightmares. And, here, it is no secret to Hermione, either. She’s known for years, though without the intimacy Ron has grown familiar with. And a good thing, too, that, he often thinks. Harry gave this to _him_. Not anybody else. He shared it with Ron, and with Ron alone.

But on this night, after they have had the locket for some time, Ron jolts awake at the sound of screaming. Ear-splitting, excruciating, punctuated by the occasional garbled word, something that could be _No_ or something far fiercer, but it is lost in the pain of all the rest of it.

Blindly, he stumbles out of bed, wand pulled up immediately as he hastens to Harry’s side. But he is not the first one there, and Harry is quieting, waking, before Ron even crouches before him. Halting, Ron watches as Harry struggles to sit up, looking over at Hermione, who has a gentle hand on his arm, brown eyes looking down at him with concern.

“Hermione?” His voice is dry, chapped, perhaps a bit confused.

“Nightmare?” she asks softly, sitting on the edge of his small bed. “Here.” As they both watch, she Conjures a goblet and fills it with water, passing it off as though it’s all no big deal. Harry flashes her a grateful smile, but Ron can barely watch, stomach twisting with an emotion he cannot stop to name.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hermione asks promptly.

Harry considers her for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s nothing, really.”

“You were screaming,” she tells him gently.

“Oh.”

“You look very pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Neither of them seem to notice Ron. They are firmly caught up in one another, their gazes locked in an exchange Ron has no part in.

Jaw clenched, Ron steps back, and back, and back, until he has returned to his own bed. Even from here, though, he can still hear their words, quieter but somehow loud enough to make Ron’s ears ring.

“I’m all right,” Harry is insisting. “I’m really sorry I woke you.”

“That’s okay,” Hermione soothes him. “I’d rather be with you now than sleeping anyways. Your pulse is still racing…”

Ron stares up at the roof of the tent, scowling. Some part of him is sure, without a trace of doubt—that should be _him_ beside Harry right now, should be _him_ making sure Harry is really okay—but there is another, larger part that questions whether or not that’s really true. He’s never thought to look after Harry quite the way Hermione is, encouraging him to stay hydrated and to _breathe, Harry, that’s right, just like that_. It never even crossed his mind that Harry might need more than a reassurance of what’s real and what’s not.

But is has occurred to Hermione. Of course it has.

And suddenly, it is not just Ron’s burden anymore. Now, it is Hermione’s too, and as he listens to their soft voices carry on in the night, he can’t help but think she carries it a lot better than he ever has.

~

From then on, Ron lets Hermione deal with Harry’s “burden,” even though the very thought of it makes his stomach twist painfully. Harry never says anything about it, so Ron can only assume that he’s not too bothered. He must prefer Hermione’s care, Ron surmises in irritation.

He never does hear them talking like that again, and, after another week or so, he finds that he sleeps undisturbed all through the night, and he starts to think that maybe this is for the best. Why has he been losing sleep over Harry for all these years when Harry never even cared about it?

A quieter voice in the back of his mind says that Harry _did_ care, likely still does, but Ron shuts it down as soon as he begins to hear it. There are bigger things to worry about, he reasons, like Ginny who is still at Hogwarts and his mum and dad and brothers. Each day that passes without them finding another Horcrux—or a way to destroy they one they _have_ got—leaves Ron more and more agitated, and he knows he isn’t the only one.

Still, it feels like a different person entirely who blows up at Harry, who says he can’t understand because they both know that Harry doesn’t _have_ a family, does he, so he could he know how Ron is feeling? And there is Hermione, trying to stop it, but in the end she stays with Harry and Ron storms away thinking all sorts of unsavoury thoughts about what they might do with him out of the picture, as they have surely been waiting for all this time.

It feels sort of like when he and Harry weren’t talking after Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire. At first, he is all righteous anger, too fierce to feel _bad_ , and then, as the days press on, that feeling lessens and his nights are spent restlessly, replaying all the things he said under the influence of the Horcrux and wondering how he ever could have been so cruel to his best friends, to Harry, the person he _loves_.

The thing is, this time, he can’t go back. He thinks to, but by the time he returns to the forest, they’ve gone somewhere else. He learns all sorts of information in his travels, though, things about the war and the Death Eaters and he hears about the taboo on Voldemort’s name and _wishes_ , with a deep ache, that there were a way he could worn Harry and Hermione, remembering the way they had been found after escaping the wedding that day in August…

It is after Christmas before he gets any real hint as to where they are. It’s Hermione’s voice that comes from the Deluminator, just his name, but he latches on to it anyway, knowing that wherever she is, Harry will be close. Even as he spends all that time chasing the light, he never does hear Harry’s voice, and yet—

When he finally finds them, Harry is who he sees first. There is the lake (something in this will later seem ironic, how Harry’s task in the Triwizard Tournament had been to pull him up from the bottom of a lake and now, here, Ron is doing the same for him) and there’s the sword and there’s the locket, that _terrible_ locket.

Harry has him wield the sword above it, even at his feeble protests, and then he hisses something at it and it’s opening up, revealing dark clouds that climb higher and higher and then begin to morph, turn into familiar shapes, and Ron nearly drops the sword he’s so stunned.

He has always considered dreams to be things that exist only in sleep. Sure, he’s familiar with the term _daydreaming_ , but he’s never stopped to really consider what it means. To him, it has always been synonymous with “spacing out,” “not paying attention.”

This...this _thing_ can only be called a _nightmare_.

The shapes it has taken on are that of Harry and Hermione, and it is Hermione who is speaking down to him, saying the things he has been thinking all along: They are better off without him, they were glad when he left, and then—

“ _You were never any help_ ,” the figure of Harry says, sneering. “ _All you did was make things more difficult. Why would you bother returning when I’m so much happier with her?_ ”

Behind him, Harry—the _real_ Harry—yells at him to just stab the damn thing, but for a long moment he can only stare at the disgusting recreations of his best friends as they begin to kiss each other.

And then Harry’s voice breaks through, crying, “Just stab it, Ron, just stab it!” and so Ron does, taking in a deep breath and forcing the sword downward with all his strength.

The locket screams, and breaks, and the nightmare is over, and there, smiling tremulously at him, is Harry.

With shaking hands, Ron lowers the sword and raises one of his hands to wipe at his eyes, almost surprised that they are even wet at all. He stares at Harry, mouth dry, and tries to figure out what the hell he can possibly say about _that_.

But Harry doesn’t seem to expect him to talk about it. Instead he just gestures to the broken locket and says, rather pointlessly, “You did it.”

Ron lets out a long breath, relieved. His lips twitch up a bit. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

Harry is silent for a moment, and then he coughs lightly, stepping forward to pick up the broken locket. Not meeting Ron’s eyes, he says, “You never, er, make me talk about things, so I won’t either, but...you know that’s not true, right? We both, um, missed you. Hermione…”

But Ron doesn’t want to hear about Hermione. He comes closer to Harry and wraps him in a tight embrace, relishing in the sound of his heartbeat against Ron’s chest, the way he stiffens slightly and then relaxes, welcoming the warmth that sits between them.

Warmth, right.

Ron steps back and says, “So, er, where to, then?”

Harry leads them back to the tent without another word, though Ron can’t help noticing the surreptitious glances he shoots in Ron’s direction the whole way back, as if there is something he _wants_ to say but doesn’t know how to.

That fades from Ron’s mind as soon as they’re back, though, and Hermione is shouting at him, pointing her wand, huffing in irritation even as he tries to explain himself. He knows that he does not deserve forgiveness for what he’s done to them, though, and despite the fact that Harry looks like he’d like to, Ron decides not to push her. Truly, it’s a wonder that Harry has forgiven him, but Harry always does, doesn’t he? Always has.

Ron returns to his same bed, finally feeling his exhaustion creeping into his bones, but just as he is about to crawl under the covers, someone taps his shoulder.

He turns to face Harry, who is frowning at him.

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Harry says promptly. “I’m sleeping with you, of course.”

Ron blinks.

“Well, I hardly think _I_ need the comfort.” Harry huffs. “Honestly, just get in and move over, I won’t stand here all day.”

Baffled, Ron does as he says, and only when they are both in the bed and Ron looks over does he notice the colour on Harry’s cheeks.

“You’re embarrassed about this!” he realizes.

Harry looks away, scowling. “I am not. Just go to sleep, would you?”

But now his short assertions make sense, Ron thinks, trying not to laugh. Maybe Harry does think Ron needs the company, but, then, Harry wants his too, and he’s never _really_ had to ask for it before, has he?

“I don’t mind,” Ron tells him after a moment, quiet so as to not disturb Hermione, wherever she is. “You don’t need to ask to sleep with me or anything like that.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Harry mutters, and now he even _sounds_ embarrassed, his voice a little higher than normal.

Ron hesitates only for a moment before nodding. “All right.”

They both lie back, silent but so very close because of the size of the bed. For a long while, Ron simply listens to Harry’s breathing, chest aching as he realizes just how _much_ he’s missed this.

Harry turns slightly, so that his breath is tickling Ron’s ear.

“I’m glad you came back,” he whispers, in such a way that makes Ron’s spine tingle. He can’t respond, his heart beating so fast, but Harry doesn’t seem to expect him to. Instead, he rolls onto his other side, and within minutes he is asleep.

It is not much longer that Ron’s exhaustion catches up with him, and he is drifting off too.

~

Something changes after that.

As Ron once did for him in Hogwarts, Harry now crawls into Ron’s bed every night without a word. Ron notices, rather hyper-aware of it, that Harry’s fingers will ghost over his arm, his hand, wherever he can touch, with a sort of trembling fear, as if he is worried that Ron will disappear on him again. Ron says nothing about it, even as the touches ignite something very primal within him, a deep, searing fire brought up from his gut. He knows that Harry’s intentions are far more innocent than that, and he would not dream of depriving his best friend of this, not ever again.

But one night Ron finds himself waking, groggy, uncertain of what has made him stir in the first place. It takes precious long seconds to realize that it is Harry, tossing and turning beside him, mouthing silent words.

Silent words.

Ron strains, but he can hear nothing at all, even as he watches Harry’s lips moving, mouthing the same words as always, _no, don’t, stop, kill me instead_.

Heart racing, Ron presses his palm gently against Harry’s cheek. It is startlingly warm to his touch, but at it, Harry seems to calm again, his movements slowing and eventually stopping even as his lips continue to move.

Ron drops his hand down to Harry’s shoulder, giving it a light shake, and Harry sits upright suddenly, a soundless gasp falling off his lips.

Soundless.

Silent words.

All at once, Ron understands. _Really_ understands.

“You promised,” he murmurs.

Harry stares at him, mouth open, and then he is shutting it, jaw clenched tight. He fishes his wand from under the pillow and non-verbally cancels the silencing charm. When he looks back to Ron, it is with equal parts defiance and guilt in his eyes.

“You need to sleep too,” Harry says lowly, furiously. “Besides, it’s—more of a habit, really, I started doing it months ago.”

Ron’s mouth goes dry. “Because I wasn’t here?”

But Harry shakes his head. “Because I thought you were done with it,” he mutters. “When I woke Hermione up instead of you, and...every night after that…”

Ron remembers that night too. He winces as the implications of Harry’s words sink in.

“I was awake,” he says hoarsely. “I just thought you’d prefer Hermione.”

Harry’s eyes widen, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You’ve no idea how much I—” He stops, colour rising dark enough on his cheeks that it appears vibrant even in the dark. “How much I need you,” he finishes, looking away from Ron.

“What?”

Harry groans. “Don’t make me say it again. Hermione’s great, but she’s not— It’s different, all right? When you...when you touch me”—he ducks his head in obvious embarrassment—“you’ve no idea how much it helps, or...or how much I _need_ that...do you?” He glances up briefly, then shakes his head. “Of course you don’t. Never mind. I just...I thought you didn’t want to deal with it anymore, that’s all.”

Ron swallows. “But you’re sleeping in my bed,” he points out weakly.

If it was possible, Harry’s cheeks would redden even more at that, if the way his shoulders hunch in slightly is any indication.

“I needed to be—to be close.” Now, finally, he looks up and meets Ron’s eyes again. “To be able to, erm, touch you. Know you’re real, you’re still there.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Harry.”

Harry grimaces. “But I dream about it, you know. You—gone.”

And the way his throat closes up around the word, Ron knows he doesn’t mean gone in the sense he was these past months. Gone, he says. _Dead_.

“I’m here,” he says, a little desperately. “I’m right here, mate, I won’t leave you—”

Harry lets out a noise that could be a laugh or could be a sob. “Shut up,” he says. “I’m sorry about the charms, all right? I just—I just don’t want to...to…”

“Be my burden?”

He nods sharply. “Yeah. That.”

“But,” Ron starts. Stops. Thinks the words over, knowing there are about a hundred ways they could go _wrong_ , and then thinks, _To hell with it,_ and says them anyway: “But I _want_ you to be my burden.”

Harry blinks, then seems to shake himself. Suddenly, without any warning, he is laughing so hard he doubles over slightly, only getting air through gasping, wheezing breaths. Ron watches with growing embarrassment until Harry finally catches his breath and looks up.

“Oh, God,” he says, all mirth fading from his expression within seconds. “You’re not joking, are you?”

Minutely, Ron shakes his head.

Instead of saying anything else, Harry brings a hand up and places it against Ron’s cheek, almost _reverently_ , gentle but firm, awed in every way.

And Ron thinks—well, no, he doesn’t think, can barely string two words together in his mind, and the sparks from Harry’s fingers trail down his jaw, his neck, from his chest to his gut to that fire that never quite dies and—

Before he even realizes he is doing it, he reaches up and grabs Harry’s hand in his own, then leans forward and presses their lips together.

Harry lets out a muffled noise of shock, and Ron can _feel_ him trying to back away, but something keeps him there anyway and they are kissing softly, and then deeply, Harry arching into him, making small, delightful noises while Ron presses his tongue between Harry’s lips, tasting him, relishing in all of it: Harry’s hand in his, the other on his hip, Harry’s chest flush with his own, heart beating rapidly, the _sounds_ he’s making, as if he’s not even aware he’s making any at all—

“ _Excuse_ me!”

They pull apart clumsily, Harry’s teeth catching painfully on Ron’s lip, and both turn, flushed red with more than their sudden mortification, to see Hermione. Though her tone hadn’t seemed so, she looks amused, hands on hips while she taps one foot impatiently.

“It hardly seems fair that you get to do that,” she says, “when I’ve been on watch for _hours_ now. One of you—or both of you, I don’t care—needs to take my place so I can get some sleep, all right?”

“Sorry,” Harry says bashfully.

Hermione’s lips twitch. “Yes, well, take my place to make up for it, all right?” She turns towards her bed, but stops halfway there and throws them back a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you. I’ve been waiting years for you two to get together, you know.”

With that, she walks away, leaving both boys to stare after her, gobsmacked.

After a moment, Harry awkwardly clears his throat and makes to stand. “Well,” he says, “I’ll just, er…”

“I’ll come with you,” Ron tells him, decisive. “I don’t think I’d be falling asleep again anytime soon, anyway.”

He can’t help grinning as Harry flushes at that.

“Right,” Harry says faintly, but it is far from a protest.

They both resume the spot just outside the tent Hermione has been at for the past few hours, but neither of them says a word. After a few obviously contemplative minutes, Harry sighs shortly and reaches over to intertwine their hands, leaning his head against Ron’s shoulder.

Ron glances down at him, mouth open to say something, but stops when he realizes Harry is dozing off, his breaths lengthening and deepening. Shutting it again, he shifts slightly to make Harry more comfortable, wrapping an arm around him. He doesn’t need to speak, anyway, he knows. They have never needed words to communicate with each other.

There is no doubt in Ron’s mind anymore: Harry loves him too.

~

Things happen very fast, after that. They do not get a proper moment alone until they’re at Shell Cottage, but Harry’s head is full of visions from Voldemort and his shoulders feel heavy with the weight of Dobby’s death and all Ron can really do for him now is stay by his side. They don’t speak about it, not in so many words, but between stolen kisses and lingering touches there is a sort of comfort, the reminder that they are both there, alive, and neither of them is going anywhere.

They are as caught up in this war as the war is in them. They are instrumental to it—or Harry is, at least, but he would say something, here, about how he couldn’t have done it on his own, much as he had wanted to. They must see it to its end, because it will follow them wherever they go anyway.

It leads them back to Hogwarts, finally, and though there are surely a thousand things Ron would like to say to Harry before they fall into this battle, he knows there is no space for words, not now. Not until it’s over, if it ever even will be.

There is the cup and the diadem, Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle and the Fiendfyre. There is Fred. There are Remus and Tonks and Lavender Brown and Colin Creevey.

There is Snape.

And then there is Harry.

Harry, selfless to his last bone and yet somehow, in that moment, the most selfish person Ron has ever known. He and Hermione stand close together in the crowd gathering, watching, aching, and all Ron can think is that Harry never even gave him a chance to say all those words, never even gave him a chance to say _good-bye_ , as if it wasn’t enough that he has already lost his brother and his friends, as if it wasn’t enough that he has already had his childhood stolen away from him and now there is _this_ , an ugly, stabbing pain in his chest, as though there is a part of him that died right alongside Harry, seven years and countless sleepless nights and too many words to ever know how to say.

And even as he watches it all happen, sees the moment when Harry is _there_ and then he is gone, is one of the very first to notice when he comes up from under the Cloak and is impossibly close when he faces off, for the last time, with Voldemort, the feeling does not go away. It stays when Harry leads them up to the headmaster’s office. It stays as he explains what happened, that he really _had_ died, in some way, but he came back, after all, and now he is here, really, truly, _permanently_. He does not admit that he didn’t know he would be able to return. He does not suggest that, for even a moment, he ever considered simply staying dead. He doesn’t need to, because Ron and Hermione know him well enough to tell.

He says that, now, he just wants to sleep, a sentiment they can all share, but when they return to the Gryffindor common room, none of them do immediately retire to bed. Instead, they sit before the unlit fireplace and, for a very long time, none of them say a word.

Finally, it is Hermione who pulls out her wand and lights the fire. Harry summons Kreacher, who returns to them shortly with a plate of sandwiches, and then Ron says, redundantly, “It’s over.”

Hermione sighs, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “It is.”

Harry is silent, but his hand seeks out Ron’s. As he makes contact, though, Ron jumps at the feeling of his fingers, like ice against his skin.

“Merlin, Harry, you’re _cold_.”

Harry blinks owlishly. “I don’t feel cold.”

“Hermione, feel his hand!”

Hermione looks between them in amusement, but leans over Ron to do so. As soon as she does, the smile fades from her face completely. Her eyebrows furrow together, and then something akin to horror crosses her face.

“What?” Harry demands. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You, um…” She coughs, then winces. “You feel like a _ghost_ , Harry.”

Harry pales suddenly, then flushes and yanks his hand back, looking almost as if he has been burnt. “Well,” he says, then stops.

“Harry—”

“I’m going to bed,” he declares, rising on shaky legs. “You both should get some rest too.”

His tone does not leave it up for argument, and within seconds he has ascended the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Ron and Hermione watch him go, and, for some minutes after, neither can think of what to do or say.

After some time, though, Hermione pulls her legs in and brings them up, folding her knees into her chest.

“You should talk to him,” she suggests softly. “I know…I know it’s all very strange, but I’m sure it is for him too. Not just for us.”

Ron stares at her. “ _I_ should talk to him?”

“Well, of course.” She wiggles her toes, frowning. “He listens to you far better than he listens to me, haven’t you noticed? At first I was a little jealous, honestly, but…well, you share something different with each other, that’s all. I know he loves me as much as I love him, but it’s just…different for you. That’s all. You should talk to him,” she repeats. “I doubt he’ll really be able to sleep right away, not after everything that’s happened. You could use the comfort too, I think.”

“What about you?”

She hums thoughtfully. “I think I’d like to read a book,” she decides. “Just for fun. It feels like it’s been ages.”

And suddenly, everything feels—well, _normal_ is not the word for it, no, but as close to it as it’ll ever be. Despite the heaviness in his chest, Ron grins.

“Typical,” he says. “Well, all right, then. Better you than me, I say.”

“Reading _can_ be for fun, you know.” But she’s smiling too. “I’ll talk to you both after we’ve all got some rest, all right?”

He agrees, then gets to his feet and makes to follow Harry upstairs. A hand on his wrist stops him, though, and he looks down to see Hermione gesturing to the plate of food. “Take it,” she says. “He didn’t eat anything.”

He nods shortly and reaches to grab it up, then makes his way after Harry. The tower is completely empty, but as he approaches, Ron sees that Harry has shut and locked the door behind him. For anyone else, Ron would take this as a sign that he doesn’t want to be bothered, but he rather suspects that Harry just needs the security of the locked door right now. Keeping this in mind, Ron mutters the charm to unlock it and steps inside, but takes the time to do the lock up again as he shuts the door behind him.

For a moment, he can do little more than look around him, shocked to see that their dormitory hasn’t changed at all through the year. Of course, he hadn’t really been expecting the others to throw away their beds, but it occurs to him that by the time of the battle, only one of their dorrmmates hadn’t been cast out of this room completely. Briefly, he wonders how Seamus managed to sleep here every night without the reassuring sounds of the other boys sleeping around him.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Harry is sitting on his bed, cross-legged. There is an absent, forlorn look in his eyes, as if he is seeing something beyond the room that Ron can’t even begin to fathom. He gets the sudden feeling that he wouldn’t want to, anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, holding the platter of sandwiches awkwardly before him. “Erm...you didn’t eat anything.”

“Oh.” Harry drops his gaze, suddenly, gnawing at his bottom lip. “I don’t know if I’m really hungry, after all.”

Ron frowns, then, awkwardness be damned, he makes up his mind and crosses the room to sir down beside Harry.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You must be starving. It’s been a while since we had anything to eat.”

A brief hesitation, and then Harry takes a half of a sandwich, cut into a neat triangle. As he nibbles at ir, Ron considers him.

Once he has eaten half of what’s in his hand, Harry glances up at Ron.

“I’m really sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t know…”

All at once, that feeling, the weighted dread that has been sitting in Ron’s chest since he saw Harry slumped in Hagrid’s arms, fades away.

“Hey,” he says, leaning forward slightly to catch Harry’s eyes, “you don’t have to be sorry about anything, mate.”

Harry shakes his head. “If I’d been faster—”

“We were with you the whole time,” Ron interjects. “If that’s the case, we’re as much to blame as you are.”

Harry shoots him a look of pure annoyance. “Well, if I’d _realized_ sooner, then this wouldn’t have all happened! Aren’t _you_ mad at me? Fred died!”

Ron’s stomach twists painfully. “Well, you didn’t kill him, did you?”

“But he might not have died if I’d just realized sooner. You ought to be angry with me,” Harry adds, sounding rather furious himself. “You ought to be telling me it’s all my fault, I shouldn’t have come back—”

“Come back!” Ron makes a grab for Harry’s wrist—and it is cold, _so_ very cold—and holds it so tightly his fingers will surely leave marks. The plate of sandwiches clatters to the floor, but neither of them pays it any mind. Harry’s eyes are wide, his breathing quick and shallow, as he stares at Ron, and Ron makes an effort to loosen his grip slightly. “You act like I shouldn’t be _happy_ you didn’t really die,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry tries to pull back his hand, but Ron holds tight, keeping him close. Closing his eyes, as if he suddenly can’t even bear to look at Ron, he hisses, “Because I don’t _deserve_ to be here. Why should I have gotten the choice when nobody else did? And after so many people had _already_ died, and all I had to do was—was—” He stops, visibly swallowing something back. His bottom lip trembles slightly. “I know it’s not my fault,” he says, in such a way that Ron suspects he really doesn’t know it at all. “But if I had known sooner I had to die, it might’ve...I dunno. Maybe less people would’ve died first. That’s all.”

Ron wonders, briefly, if Hermione had already guessed what Harry has been thinking when she sent him up here with the plate of sandwiches. Just as quickly, he dismisses the thought. Whether Hermione could tell or not, Ron is the one who’s here now.

“I don’t really get how it all worked,” Ron admits. “Why Dumbledore told you what he did and didn’t tell you other things. I dunno about all that, mate, any more than you do. But...I do know that if anyone deserved to come out of this thing alive, it’s you. I’m _glad_ you’re here. I already lost my brother. I dunno what I’d’ve done if I’d lost you too.”

Harry recoils, as if Ron has hit him, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. For a moment, he simply stares at Ron, open-mouthed, and then his jaw firmly closes again and he looks away.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks, and then Harry lets out a short sigh, untucking his legs from under him and swinging them over the bed to freedom.

“All right,” he says, like it is a concession. “I don’t really know what to think of it, anyway. I reckon I should just be happy it’s over.”

He has never looked so far from happy, though, Ron thinks. Not in first year when he brought Ron before the Mirror of Erised, not when he found out the truth about Sirius and Pettigrew and all of it, not when he came out of the maze, not after he returned from the Ministry, not at Dumbledore’s funeral.

“Well,” Ron says slowly, “I don’t...er, I don’t suppose it’s really that easy, do you? I mean, I’m not that happy either. ‘Sides, there’re all sorts of other things to think about. The victory, or whatever, can’t last forever.”

Harry waves his free hand abstractly above his head. “I can _hear_ them,” he says miserably. “I didn’t notice it ‘til I left you guys downstairs, but—it’s all around me. Voices I recognize, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. Like they’re muffled by something, I dunno, maybe it’s the Veil.” He laughs. It’s a hollow, desolate sound, one that seems to rattle about within an empty chest. “Maybe I’m going mad, hearing voices and things.”

Ron opens his mouth to say that _of course_ he’s not going mad, then stops, frowning. “Voices?” he asks instead.

“I think I can hear them.” A look of frustration crosses his face as he glances toward Ron. “My mum, my dad, Sirius, Remus. Others too, maybe, I don’t know, I can’t understand, it’s just _there_ …”

“What, because you used the Stone? But didn’t you get rid of it?”

“I _did_. This is different anyway, I could tell what they were saying when I used it. I could _see_ them. This is different. I dunno. I think it’s like— I feel like a _ghost_?”

“That’s just an expression,” Ron says weakly.

“Not one _I’ve_ ever heard,” he retorts. “Anyway, maybe it’s just...I dunno. Maybe it’ll stop, but...I really am tired and...and I’m still sorry, all right? Even if you don’t blame me, I kinda blame me and I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think or feel or any of it.”

Ron considers that for a moment, and then he asks, “Do you want me to stay?”

“Of course I do,” Harry mutters, looking away from him. “Why do you think I came back at all?”

It is a painful thought, of course it is. But beneath the words, there’s something else—a burden that is not truly a burden, after all, an acceptance of something far greater than _life_ and _death_ , something about _love_ or _togetherness_ , the things that Harry thought were more important than breathing.

Ron smiles, and raises his wand to do away with the spilled sandwiches. He turns to Harry, then, and crawls into the bed beside him.

They are unclean, dirty with blood and dirt and all the heartbreak this battle has thrust upon them, but, for right now, it will all stay. It will be a long time before they can clean it all off, anyway, Ron knows.

Outside, the sun shines, some hour between summer’s brilliant morning and its gentle evening, and they drift off to sleep, together, as they always were meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated! xx
> 
> p.s. if the ending seems rushed i'm REALLY sorry. this thing got long and i just. wanted it to end. i tried to end it in such a way that you could decide what happens next but my thought was that they'd finally be happy...albeit a bit traumatized (okay, a lot. but in my head they'll all get some therapy too) so i hope that carries! thanks for reading! :D
> 
> (p.s. catch me on twitter [@laphicets](https://twitter.com/laphicets) or tumblr [@kohakhearts](https://kohakhearts.tumblr.com) for writing updates. i also sometimes take writing requests on both!)


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